


Last Call

by floweringjudas (manipulant)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Brainwashing, Dubious Consent, Dystopia, Forced Prostitution, M/M, Polyjuice Potion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-27
Updated: 2011-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-28 06:43:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manipulant/pseuds/floweringjudas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's missing and considered dead, Voldemort's destroyed but the Bad Guys Have Won, Lucius Malfoy has embraced his role as Diagon Alley's premier Madam, and Percy Weasley is his Employee of the Month. As such, Percy gets the clients that may be Challenges.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Call

Percy walks the perimeter of the small room nervously, smoothing the bedcover and casting another freshening charm on it (there's not enough time between clients to use a proper cleaning charm, the sheets won't dry). He arranges the purely-decorative alarm clock and photo frames (smiling people Percy doesn't know) on the table, wipes the dust from the mantel, gets out a fresh set of candles and lights them, hoping they won't be put to uses other than providing light this hour.

One more appointment before dawn, one more customer to please. One more will keep Percy in Lucius's good graces, will keep him in one of the nicer rooms, will keep him earning enough for cigarettes (cheaper than food and an appetite suppressant, an added bonus) and a rat a day for Hermes. Percy adjusts an angle on a picture frame (his favourite - the smiling couple remind him of Ron and Hermione), makes it perpendicular to the edge of the mantel. A bell sounds in his ears, audible only to the employees in the brothel, to let them know when to wrap things up or finish preparing.

 _One more one more one more_ , Percy chants to himself, pinching his cheeks and stretching them into something resembling a smile, as he hears footsteps coming down the hall. One more and then sleep, a months-old copy of the _Prophet_ and an approving nod from Malfoy, if he's done well.

He usually does well. With one or two exceptions, he's always excelled at following orders, pleasing others.

The last client of the night knocks on the door, which is rare but not unheard-of. Percy sighs before he goes to open it - the only type of clients who knock are the shy ones, the challenges, the talkers. He rather hates Lucius for saddling him with one when he just wants to fucking _sleep_ , but he keeps the smile pasted on as he opens the door.

 _Oh._

Forget _rather_ , Percy _really_ hates Lucius.

It's not unheard of - men with wives or reputations do often use Polyjuice before coming down this particular bit of Knockturn. Despite the sweeping reforms that Percy's read of in the _Prophet_ , most of the wizarding population still haven't fully embraced the new Morality Codes handed down by the Ministry. Percy's been fucked by several Lucius Malfoys (awkward), Lord Voldemorts (terrifying even in the wake of his death), Cornelius Fudges (vaguely disgusting), Severus Snapes (...disturbingly arousing) and even by a copy of his older brother Bill. Even _this_ has happened to him before, though only once, since any bit of the boy is highly valuable and therefore not likely to be wasted on an aging whore in one of Lucius Malfoy's shabbier cathouses.

And Lucius can't possibly know. Percy's never said, never let himself _think_ of it in case Lucius is a Legilimens, and the boy's been missing and declared dead for three years - Lucius can't be doing it on purpose.

Still, Percy can't help how his heart jumps into his throat, and how he goes cold with terror for just a moment, as the door opens and reveals a perfect copy of Harry Potter.

"H-hello," he stumbles, giving Harry - his _client_ , he quickly corrects - a small, guilty smile. "Goodness, you startled me. ...Please, come in."

"Sorry," the Harry-clone murmurs, and the familiarity of his voice makes Percy swallow noisily. "I know it's late, but the man at the door told me you'd still be, um, up for - "

"No, it's absolutely fine," Percy says, gesturing a little with his hands. He notices they're shaking, and puts them back down at his sides after he closes the door. "I'm, ah, always _up_ for anything," he says, trying to lighten the mood a bit, put the client at ease. The smile he receives makes his heart wobble. "What did you have in mind?"

"...Not sure, actually," the boy half-laughs, shrugging a bony shoulder. "I haven't done this before. ...Come here, I mean. I have _done_ this, before. Erm."

"Oh." For a moment, Percy hates him, anger rushing like fire through his nerves and veins as he wonders which spoilt brat he is, underneath the costume; what his Death Eater father had to pay for a stray hair from the Boy Who Lived. "Well. We could start by sitting on the bed," he suggests, crossing to it to give himself a brief bit of space to recover. He smiles sharply as he sits, pats the mattress beside him.

The boy shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking nervous, then nods and joins him. He opens his mouth to speak (Percy _hates_ him, hates him for his stolen voice), then seems to think better of it and closes the distance between them, kissing him impetuously. Percy's as relieved as he is affronted, and closes his eyes, moving his lips mechanically, accepting what he's given.

And then, the boy pulls back. Percy blinks his eyes open, a bit confused at the reluctance - whoever he is, he is _paying_ for this, and he's wasting his father's galleons. The boy's staring at him, frowning faintly, and Percy can't help frowning a little too - the eyes aren't green, they're blue.

"Impressive glamour," he finally realises aloud, and the boy looks pleased with himself.

"Thanks."

Percy can't help adding a little slap, to wipe the smug look off the brat's face. "His eyes were green, not blue."

"You knew him?" Now the boy looks interested - there aren't many close friends or even casual acquaintances of the Boy Who Lived, who managed to survive the purges (or the severe Memory Modifications). Nervous at the boy's heightened interest, Percy shrugs a shoulder and considers his reply.

 _He only smiled when he was laughing. He chewed on his fingernails and the ends of his Hogwarts ties. He looked worried when he slept, which wasn't often. He took his tea with three sugars, and always from the chipped mug. His hair smelled like apples and ink. His hands were always cold. He wasn't hugged enough, as a child. He only cried at night, when they were all asleep. He clung to me and shook, the night before he left._

"A bit." He pauses, hopes the boy hasn't noticed how his hands are trembling again. "We were in the same house, at Hogwarts."

A brief, disappointed look and then the boy's lost interest that quickly (he hates him for that), and is kissing him again. Percy closes his eyes again, and lets himself be manoeuvred into lying on the bed while he slicks his tongue along the foreign one in his mouth, tastes a strangely sweet mix of mint gum and tea. The boy whimpers quietly, cups his cheek with unpleasantly chilly fingers, and Percy sighs and settles back into the mattress, one hand on a too-thin back. He hates it when they want romance.

"Kiss me back," the boy orders, and Percy dutifully cranes up, licking more roughly at chapped, bitten lips, making a few perfunctory noises. Half an hour, perhaps, until his workday's done and he can sl -

"Kiss me _back_ ," the boy says again, words pressed urgently against Percy's mouth before he backs off again. Percy opens his eyes, surprised to see the boy looking flushed and upset. "...Please," the boy mutters a moment later, tracing a fingertip on the bedcover, embarrassed. "Can't you, _please_?"

Percy's jaw tightens, but he smiles and nods. "All right," he says soothingly, propping up on an elbow, scooting closer. He hesitates, then slides a hand warmly along the boy's waist, rubbing his back a little, fingertips ghosting over the ridges of his spine. The boy's defeated posture, the tilt of his head and his turned-down lips make Percy's stomach twist, and he has to swallow a bubble in his throat suddenly. "Close your eyes."

The boy obeys immediately, and Percy's breath hitches inaudibly - it gives him a moment to just _look_. The likeness is incredible, a bit devastating - Percy lets his hand wander from the boy's back to his front, over his arm and shoulder, the exposed skin of his neck. The fake Harry wets his lips as Percy rubs his thumb over his cheekbone, his temple. Percy takes his glasses off, and the boy's (it'll be easier if he can't quite see), and sets them down on the table before exploring again, sliding fingers through soft, thick hair. "Good?"

"Mm," the boy answers, sounding drugged by touch. His head is resting heavier on his shoulders, and Percy's vision is blurring more than just because he took his glasses off - there's a moment where he feels trapped, frozen. And then Percy asks himself what good any sort of self-preservation will do for him, in a place like this, and closes his eyes too.

Their kisses suddenly heated and desperate, the boy ( _might as well call him Harry_ ) whimpers and presses tight to Percy, almost overwhelming him with the _want_ in his grasp and his lips. His hands roam, skimming over Percy's chest and back, mapping him out like he's memorising the contours. Percy gasps and writhes back, shameless like he usually isn't as he unbuttons his own shirt, reaches a hand blindly down to begin unbuckling Harry's belt. "Oh, please," he hears himself begging, shuddering as a wet stripe is licked up his neck.

Percy barely remembers to cast a protection/preparation charm before Harry's inside him, flushed cheek on his shoulder, panted breaths hot on his collarbone. They haven't even bothered undressing - he's managed to work his hand underneath Harry's jeans and underwear, managed to grab a handful of smooth arse to keep him pumping in, encourage him to go harder and faster if he wants. Harry's making little keening sounds, fisting the bedcover tightly as he tries to get in deeper.

Percy hadn't thought he'd be able to get hard again after his long night, but the suddenness of his arousal has left him lightheaded and gasping - he manages to lock his ankles around Harry's back and thrust down onto him (Harry actually _moans_ at that), using the momentum to rock up against his stomach for the friction he needs against his prick. Percy's heard himself gasp Harry's name a couple of times, but he can't worry about that now, he'll deal with it later.

They're both too worked up and tired to last, and Harry comes first with a little cry, fucking into Percy a couple more times before shivering and going still. Percy whimpers and rocks against and onto him for a minute more until he finishes - it's not a huge orgasm, there's not much of a mess to clean up, but it spreads low in his belly and legs and warms him through like nothing else has managed. Harry's forehead is still against his shoulder, and they're both breathing heavily, and Percy notices when he reaches up to push hair off his forehead that his own eyes and cheeks are embarrassingly wet.

"Oh, god," he whispers, words sticking in his dry throat. He swallows and can't help choking at a sudden memory - the two of them just like this on Christmas morning, waiting to be woken up by the rest of the Order at Grimmauld Place, Harry's weight sweet and unoppressive on top of him. Harry'd given him stationery - he'd never used it. He'd given Harry quills with feathers to match his eyes. "...Oh god, my _boy_ ," he shudders, quickly moving a hand up to shield his eyes as he breaks Rule Number One - no crying in front of clients.

He can feel the boy tense on top of him, and if he were at all in control of his emotions, Percy would be afraid of what Lucius will say when he finds out. As it is, he halfway manages to apologise before he notices that the boy is still clinging, tighter than before, his own breaths jerky and uneven.

"...I was so afraid you'd forgot," Percy hears him whisper, just before he feels the uncomfortable, half-forgot sensation of a Portkey tugging at his navel.


End file.
